


The Incident

by BellatrixLives



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Obliviousness, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:44:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixLives/pseuds/BellatrixLives
Summary: “Isn’t there another way to punish me?” She asks, trying to tamper her amusement at the situation. “Ground me, stand me in the corner, spank me?”Sherlock arches a perfect eyebrow at her, and she wonders if he realizes she’s making fun of him.“Corporal punishment has an uncertain track record. There are many studies saying it doesn’t work, while there are many contradictory studies and personal statements arguing that it does indeed provide the desired effect. I do suppose it could be worth a shot.”Molly has to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing, though she’s certain Sherlock must be joking.“Are you… seriously proposing to… spank me?” she questions disbelievingly.“It was your proposal,” he counters.





	1. Chapter One

Molly Hooper is in a fantastic mood.

Her career is steadily climbing, the most recent report she wrote is being published in a prominent medical journal, her cat Toby is over his cold, and the man she's head over heels in love with is no longer being banished from the country for murder.

Not that she'd admit she's in love with him.

Not that she'd have to.

Molly is certain everyone knows she is in love with Sherlock Holmes, even if she still tries to hide the fact from herself, swearing she is over him.

It's a little hard to stick to that story on occasions like today, when she'll be seeing Sherlock shortly.

Molly checks her reflection in the glass door of the lab fridge, smoothing her hair and straightening her blouse after unclasping the top button. She's moved beyond styling her hair and doing her make-up in ways she thinks will attract Sherlock's attention, as she's come to realize no matter what she does, he won't see her as anyone other than the Pathologist he sometimes needs the assistance of.

_That's not fair,_ she chastises herself. _Sherlock thinks of you as a friend._

_And nothing more_ …

She sighs quietly to herself, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

_If he's going to see past me, he can see past me as myself,_ she thinks, re-buttoning the top button of her shirt.

Pushing her melancholy aside, Molly starts humming happily to herself. No matter what at least she still gets to see Sherlock, and he isn't being shipped off to his doom over the whole Magnusson thing.

She checks the time and opens the fridge, reaching for the glass jar of spleens Sherlock requested.

Still humming, Molly turns around and walks towards the door leading to the main part of the lab. As she rounds the corner, swaying her hips in time to her tune, she immediately collides with Sherlock and the jar of spleens goes flying from her grasp.

It hits the floor with a shatter and a sickening _squish_.

Molly's hand flies to her mouth as she looks up at Sherlock, his expression darkening as he takes in the ruined specimens on the floor.

"Sherlock!" she gasps, "I'm so sorry!"

He squats down to prod at the glass-covered spleens on the floor.

"Ruined," he snips. "All of them."

"I— I can get you some more."

"It took you a month to collect _these_ ones."

Standing back up to his full, imposing height, Sherlock gives her a disgruntled look and turns his back on her.

"Please, Sherlock. Don't be mad at me. I just got you back. I— I mean, _I_ didn't just get you back. I never had you. I mean that, _we_ , all of us, got you back. That uh, you're here now, and you don't have to leave m— us, so—"

"Molly, do stop," Sherlock insists, and she snaps her lips closed, wishing she weren't such a bumbling buffoon around him.

"Anger is a useful emotion," he begins, turning to face her once more. "Not only can it be cathartic to the person expressing the emotion, but when directed at another it serves as a lesson."

"A lesson?"

"I don't wish to be angry with you, but after enduring my displeasure for an undetermined amount of time you will undoubtedly learn to not be so careless in the lab and ruin precious, and certainly viable, specimens."

Molly looks up at him, her face scrunched in confusion.

"What you're saying is, the only reason you're mad at me is to punish me?"

"If you wish to simplify it that way."

"How long is this punishment going to last?" she asks, crossing her arms.

"That remains to be determined."

_That won't do._

Molly has a favor to ask Sherlock, but she can't ask him if he's mad at her!

"Isn't there another way to punish me?" She asks, trying to tamper her amusement at the situation. "Ground me, stand me in the corner, spank me?"

Sherlock arches a perfect eyebrow at her, and she wonders if he realizes she's making fun of him.

"Corporal punishment has an uncertain track record. There are many studies saying it doesn't work, while there are many contradictory studies and personal statements arguing that it does indeed provide the desired effect. I do suppose it could be worth a shot."

Molly has to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing, though she's certain Sherlock _must_ be joking.

"Are you… seriously proposing to… _spank me_?" she questions disbelievingly.

"It was _your_ proposal," he counters.

"I was—" she was about to say _joking_ , but stops herself, taking a moment to consider the scenario of her bent over the counter as Sherlock spanks her bottom.

"Indeed it was," she acquiesces.

"So?" he presses. "Do you wish to try corporal punishment over my continued displeasure?"

"Will you be able to put aside your anger with me if we go through with this?" Molly counters.

"I suppose it will be an experiment for both of us," Sherlock admits. "To see if it teaches you to be more considerate, and to see if it will sweep aside my annoyance."

In the space of this one conversation Sherlock's feelings have changed from anger, to displeasure, to annoyance in his own words, Molly notes. She's fairly certain he will be over the spleen incident by tomorrow if she doesn't agree to his experiment.

_And really we shouldn't…_

That same image of her bent over a counter in front of Sherlock pops to the forefront of her mind, and before she realizes it, Molly hears herself agreeing to give corporal punishment a try.

"This way," Sherlock instructs, turning to lead her out of the lab.

Molly throws a forlorn look at the sterile countertops and follows, wondering where he plans to punish her.

A pleasant chill runs down her spine and she tries to keep her emotions off of her face as they pass a coworker in the hallway.

Sherlock takes her to her office where thoughts of countertops are instantly replaced by thoughts of her bent over the desk. A fantasy she's spent many hours fleshing out while putting off filing boring reports about ordinary deaths.

She waits, half expecting Sherlock to start laughing at her and exclaim he can't believe she actually thought he'd spank her.

Instead, he removes his suit jacket and begins to unbutton his sleeves.

"Lab coat off," he instructs, nodding towards where he hung up his jacket.

Molly swallows nervously, and shrugs out of her white coat as Sherlock begins rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt revealing the alabaster white of his forearms.

She can't help but think of how beautiful he is, and for the thousandth time likens him to a work of art in her head.

Nervously, heart speeding up, Molly takes a cautious step next to her desk.

Instead of telling her to brace herself, Sherlock pulls the chair from behind her desk and sits on it in the middle of Molly's small office, looking up at her expectantly.

He beckons her over with one graceful finger, and she approaches on autopilot, trying to conceal her uncontrollable trembling.

Molly stops next to Sherlock and he twists his finger, instructing her to turn around. Brow furrowed, she does as he wishes and turns away from him.

She jumps and squeaks as she feels his hand glide across her backside.

_Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!_

"Hmmm," he sighs, hand resting on her bum. "This won't work."

Rejection starts to bubble in Molly's stomach and she wonders what issue he has found with her behind.

"The thickness of these trousers, combined with the studs on your back pockets isn't very conducive to this experiment," he explains. "It provides you with a cushioned blow, and I don't particularly want to stab myself on your studs. You'll have to take them off."

"T-take them… _off_?" she stammers, feeling her face flush.

She turns back around to face him again.

_Did I drift off in the lab again?_

"You'll only have to lower them to your thighs, it is unnecessary to divest yourself completely."

Mouth going dry, Molly stares down at Sherlock watching her expectantly and unbuttons her trousers.

"Embarrassment is part of the punishment," he says, mistaking her blush.

His expression remains neutral as he watches her, his eyes following the movement of her hands as she slides her khakis down, and Molly is thankful that she's wearing practical white cotton panties and not one of her racier pairs.

Sherlock pats his lap.

"You want me… on your lap?" she croaks.

"It is the most practical option."

_So, so, so much better than the desk!_

Molly kneels beside his chair, braces herself, and then lies across Sherlock's lap.

She becomes hyperaware of every inch of her body that touches Sherlock; her left hand bracing her weight by holding onto his leg, her side pushing up against his abdomen, and her breasts firmly pressed into his muscled thigh.

Sherlock lowers his hand to rest on her bottom, and Molly bites her lip to hold back the sudden urge to giggle.

"I think fifteen should do it," he tells her, his voice clinical. "One for each of the ruined spleens."

_Is this really happening?_ She just has time to ask herself before the first blow.

Her breath rushes out in one sharp gasp.

It's not so much the pain, which is minor, but the shock of what is actually happening.

"One," Sherlock counts. "Two."

He strikes again.

The second one stings slightly more than the first, but not unpleasantly so.

By the third and fourth hit, Molly has to swallow back a low moan threatening to give away that she is, in fact, rather enjoying her punishment.

She's quite surprised at herself; she's always considered herself to be fairly vanilla in the bedroom, and yet it's all she can do to contain herself and try to hide her growing arousal from Sherlock.

Molly wiggles her bottom between strikes six and seven, trying to relieve some of the tension growing between her legs, but the way her body moves against Sherlock's lap just teases her further, and she can't quite contain the groan that slips out.

If Sherlock hears her he doesn't acknowledge it, and she hopes he attributes it to pain. Her nipples on the other hand, have little excuse for the way they are perking up and she wonders if he can feel them.

"Nine," he continues, steadily, completely unaware of the battle raging in Molly as she tries to hold back from jumping up and straddling Sherlock right where he sits.

She wiggles her bottom again, rocking her pelvis against Sherlock's thigh and her eyelids flutter at the burst of sensation. Molly is still pressed forward as Sherlock chants " _ten"_ and his hand, not having adjusted for her movement, lands lower than the previous blow.

He misses her bum, striking an area just a bit more intimate, and this time Molly can't stop herself.

"Ahh," she moans, gasping loudly.

"Eleven."

His hand lands in the same place sending stinging, yet pleasant vibrations to her core.

"Sherlo—" Molly pants, rolling her hips back away from his thigh and into the incoming slap.

_Ow, that one hurt, but… ohmygod…_

"Thirteen."

All of the spanks compounded in the same general area have brought an increase of pain since when they started, but Molly realizes with astonishment that the more it hurts, the better it feels, and the more turned on she becomes.

"Fourteen."

Knowing the end has come, Molly can't stop from grinding her pelvis against Sherlock's thigh once more, just as he strikes. A move he mistakes for her trying to slide away from his hand and her punishment.

"Fifteen."

The small office falls silent save for Molly's gasping breaths and Sherlock's slightly labored breathing.

She doesn't move from where she lies across his lap; she can't.

Sherlock rests his hand on her bum and she jumps, his cool hand against the sensitive skin surprising her. He traces his hand lazily over her backside, in a massaging gesture.

Molly just lies still, hand still clasped tightly to Sherlock supporting herself, but unable to do anything other than breath and blink away the unshed tears in her watering eyes.

After several moments of silence and sweet massaging circles, Sherlock finally speaks.

"Can you stand?" he asks, voice gentler than she's ever heard it.

Her throat is too dry to answer, but she nods her head yes, and begins to slide back into a kneeling position beside the chair. Sherlock takes hold of her arms and helps her move to her feet.

Molly knows she must look a mess. Her eyes are watering, her cheeks must be all blotchy, and she's certain her lower lip is swollen from biting it.

She stares at the ground, hoping Sherlock won't pay too close attention and notice the mess her arousal has made of her cotton panties.

Still in an arousal induced daze, it takes Molly a moment to notice that Sherlock is pulling her trousers back up for her, and buttoning the clasp.

"Thank you," she croaks, and Sherlock jumps up to fetch her a bottle of water from the small fridge she keeps in the corner.

Molly drinks it greedily, and then takes several long breaths, willing herself to calm down.

_Cool down. Or you might jump him._

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks her.

She nods as she takes in the concerned, yet calculating, look on his face.

_He's worried he's hurt you. He thinks your reaction is strictly due to the pain._

"I'm fine, or will be… are you still mad at me?" she counters.

"No, I have pushed aside all of my earlier emotions from the spleen incident, and I'm— I am no longer upset with you."

"Good."

"Yes, good."

The pair stands there awkwardly watching one another. Sherlock to see if Molly is hiding any further discomfort, and Molly watching to see if Sherlock felt even an inkling of the same thing she did.

It's a knock on the door that finally ends whatever trance they are both in.

"I should get that," Molly announces, before breaking her stare away from studying Sherlock.

She cracks open the door. It's John.

"Hi, you haven't seen Sherlock around have… Molly, what's wrong? Are you okay?" John asks, switching to doctor mode as he takes in her blotchy and red-eyed appearance.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine. Really. And Sherlock is right in here."

She steps aside to open the door further so John can see in.

John's eyes dart from Molly's complexion to where Sherlock stands re-buttoning his sleeves in the middle of the office.

"Are you sure—?" John tries again, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"Come along, John, much to do. Molly."

Sherlock tips his head to her just before sweeping dramatically from the room, leaving a confused, yet concerned Dr. Watson to chase after him as always.

Later in the evening, as Molly stands naked in front of her full-length mirror, studying the fading red handprints left on her bum, and reliving her _punishment_ , she has no clue she's not the only one still thinking about it.

Across town, in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock is thinking of the incident as well.

John is droning on about something; something about being nicer to the godmother of his future daughter, but Sherlock doesn't hear him.

He's to busy picturing the red raised skin that appeared on Molly's milky backside, blossoming beneath his hand and just barely peeking out from under the edge of her white cotton panties.

He's not sure why that image should stick so prominently with him. Just like he's not sure why he keeps fidgeting and tracing the fingers on his right hand with his thumb, or why his stomach tightens at the thought of another incident resulting in a repeat of today.

_Perhaps this needs further study._


	2. Chapter Two

Two days after _The Spleen Incident,_ as Molly has started referring to it in her thoughts, she texts Sherlock asking him to stop by the lab.

His response comes faster than any she's received from him before, telling her he is on the way, and she wonders if he's between cases.

_He must be bored,_ she muses.

When Sherlock arrives, Molly has to take slow, deep breaths, trying to push aside the image of her knickered bottom bent over his knee.

"What can I do for you, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asks, his blue eyes sparkling brightly.

"Well, Sherlock Holmes," she replies with a smirk, "it's more what _I_ can do for you."

He blinks rapidly looking down at her, a sure giveaway that he's confused.

"I've got something for you," Molly explains.

Very, _very_ , carefully she retrieves a jar of spleens from the counter behind her and passes it to Sherlock.

"How did you—? Was there a fatal bus crash or something?" he asks, inspecting the jar.

"No! I just called in some favors from some of the other pathologists I know around London."

Instead of thanking her, as any normal person would, instead Sherlock states,

"It appears that corporal punishment does indeed provide a desired effect."

Molly's mouth pops open into a silent 'o', and she's about to protest, but bites her tongue at the last second.

_Why argue that the Incident isn't what prompted your generosity? Let him keep thinking that._

"It appears so," she finally responds.

Sherlock looks rather pleased as he continues to inspect the jar, and she wonders whether it's because of the spleens, or thinking that the _Spleen Incident_ was a positive example of corporal punishment.

"Sherlock?" Molly ventures. "I have a favor to ask you."

"I dare say I've asked quite a number of favors from you," he replies. "What do you need?"

"Well, next weekend Barts is having a fundraising ball, and I was hoping you might be free to accompany me?"

Her words tumble out quickly, and she prattles on further, trying to delay his inevitable refusal.

"It's just that I haven't anyone else to go with, and I'm still not quite up for the dating pool after T—Tom, and I heard a rumor that you like to dance, so I just thought that maybe, if you were free, you might want to go with me?"

"Alright."

"And I know that— alright?" Molly asks, not sure she heard him. "You'll go with me? To the ball?"

"Yes. I don't have any other engagements next weekend."

"Thank you! Thank you, thank you!" she exclaims, almost throwing herself at him to give him a hug, but just stopping when she remembers the spleens.

"Can you do something in return for me?" he asks, immediately catching her off guard.

_Sherlock never asks for anything. He usually just_ tells _you and expects you to jump up and do it… of course, I'm usually ready to jump when he asks._

"I'll do my best," she answers honestly.

"I'd like to further study the benefits of corporal punishment."

Molly stares at him blankly, thinking she must have misheard him.

"With you," Sherlock clarifies.

"… okay… what do you mean exactly? Do you want me to knock that jar of spleens out of your hands?"

"No, no of course not. I meant it more as a corrective measure for other problems you may have. For example, many people, when attempting to stop smoking, snap a rubber band on their wrist when a craving strikes them."

Molly bites her lip thoughtfully.

"And what craving am I supposed to be deterring?" she asks.

_Because I'm pretty sure this is only going to make certain craving much more insistent._

"Well, um, nothing in particular. I suppose it is up to you. Perhaps if you are late turning in a medical report, something you would like to avoid happening again in the future, you can give me a call. Then I can meet you, and…"

"Punish me?" she asks, her skin prickling with pleasant goose bumps.

"Precisely."

_Not only has he agreed to go to the ball with me, but now Sherlock wants to spank me again? Did I trip and knock myself unconscious? I must be dreaming._

"Hmm," she drawls, pretending to think about it. "I suppose I could be willing to give it a try. I am a scientist after all. Experimenting is what we do."

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaims. His cheeks flush slightly. "I mean, thank you. I knew I could count on your professionalism."

_I wouldn't count on it too much,_ Molly thinks, her mind already flooding with naughty scenarios.

After an awkward moment of silence, Sherlock thanks her for the spleens and excuses himself, leaving Molly to contemplate over what just happened.

_If it were anyone other than Sherlock, I'd think this was a ploy because he simply enjoyed what happened._

Throughout the rest of the day, and the next, there are five times she almost calls Sherlock, requesting to be punished. Each time she stops just before dialing his number, chastising herself for being so wanton.

_Sherlock wants your help with an experiment, and you want to use him for your own gratification!_

She sighs loudly, shaking her head.

_How many times has he used you, though?_ She rationalizes. _How many times has he taken advantage of my… crush on him?_

In the end, Molly lasts two days before calling Sherlock.

She stumbles into work five minutes late, still caught up in her dream from the night before; a reenactment of the _Spleen Incident_. Only this time more intense, and far less clothing.

She waits thirty minutes before caving and calling him.

Sherlock answers on the first ring.

"Yes?" he asks, almost eagerly.

"I, um, I was late for work today," she says, softly.

"I see. That is not very professional of you, Miss Hooper. What do you think we should do about it?"

Molly blushes furiously, trying to speak past her mortification, and request what she wants.

"I need to learn to do better," she murmurs, trying to sound braver than she feels. "I… I need you to punish me, Sherlock."

She sucks in a shaky breath, waiting for his response.

"I'm on my way."

Before she has the chance to reply, or possibly change her mind, Sherlock hangs up on her.

She drops her cell phone on her desk, her hand shaking slightly.

_You're playing with fire, Molly Hooper._

She knows this, whatever this is, won't last. Or at least won't amount to anything like she fantasizes. Molly knows that Sherlock is most definitely _not_ experiencing even an ounce of what she is.

She knows she's playing with fire, and she'll inevitably be burned.

_But,_ she thinks, _there's no reason I can't enjoy the warmth until then._

Forty-five minutes after she places the call Sherlock strides into her office, and if she didn't know any better, she'd say he almost looks eager.

"Good morning," he wishes her.

"G'morning," she manages, in an _almost_ normal tone. "How did those spleens work out for you?"

"Quite well actually. They were just what I needed, thank you."

"That's great, glad to have helped."

"Now I'd like to return the favor," Sherlock tells her, his voice dropping an octave.

Molly swallows loudly and tries to hide the excitement buzzing through her as he gestures for her to stand up.

Once more he takes her chair and places it in the center of the office, and then removes his suit jacket before rolling up his sleeves. Molly's already not wearing her lab coat, so she just stands and waits while watching his graceful fingers work.

She's wet before he ever lays a hand on her.

When he takes a seat, Molly doesn't have to be told what to do, she approaches him eagerly. This time he doesn't check for studs or the thickness of the material she wears, he just instructs her to lower her trousers.

Molly does so with a slight shimmy of her hips, sliding down the dark dress pants to reveal her lacy blue boy shorts They're cut a bit high in the back revealing quite a lot of cheek, and are the exact shade of Sherlock's eyes.

The look on his face is a clear giveaway that he is trying to process, though what exactly is anyone's guess. Molly would like to think that her sexy panties have driven him to speechlessness, but she figures it must be something more along the lines of him running calculations to adjust for the different thickness and texture of the material compared to the last ones she wore.

"Sherlock?" she prompts, after he continues to stare blankly at her, his hands resting in his lap.

"Oh, yes, yes. Um… You were late for work. How late?" he asks, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"Twenty minutes," she lies.

"I see. Then I'll do one for each minute you were late."

Sherlock pats his lap, beckoning her to him, and she feels her arousal grow even more.

Molly kneels beside him once more, and lays over his lap just like the last time.

Sherlock's hand slides across her bum, smoothing the lace edge of her panties down.

She imagines he's getting quite the show from his angle, and wishes she could see the look on his face.

If she could, she would probably be quite surprised to see the look of reverence Sherlock wears.

As he stares down at her beautifully displayed backside, he can't help but once again question his motives for continuing on with this experiment.

_Is it truly, strictly scientific?_ He wonders.

As soon as he strikes the first blow, all questions vanish.

The only thing that matters is the red handprint glaring up at him from her soft ivory skin.

"One," he rasps.

Again, and again, he spanks her, each time his fingers resting a little longer on her bum, tracing along the welts he's raised.

When he gets to "eight," his voice is so low he wonders if Molly can hear him still counting.

Beneath his ministrations, she writhes against his lap, grinding against his thigh as if to escape the blows.

"Eleven," he counts, a little firmer.

Molly groans in pain.

_Is that a groan? Was it pain?_ He wonders.

"Twelve."

Her right hand tightens its grip on his leg, and she squirms almost arching back into the next swat.

"Thirteen. Fourteen."

Molly gasps, and presses her pelvis into his thigh again, and he wonders if he should stop, if it is too much for her to bear.

_She'd say something._

He continues on.

"Nineteen."

Molly inhales a huge gasping breath.

" _Twenty._ "

She groans again, louder and longer as her body sags against his lap.

Sherlock is panting as he stares down admiringly at his work. Molly's arse is covered with the crisscross pattern of his hand, and he can't understand why the image brings him such satisfaction.

Without consciously deciding to do so, Sherlock traces the pattern of his work with one long index finger, even following the marks under the edge of Molly's _ridiculously flimsy_ underwear.

When she lets out a contented sigh, Sherlock realizes, to his utter shock, that he _has an erection._

He pulls his hand away from Molly as if burned, and clears his throat loudly, hoping she hasn't noticed the hardness pressing against her.

"Are you alright?" he asks, switching his voice to be clinical as possible.

"Mmmhmm," she mumbles as she tries to slide off of his lap.

Sherlock helps her, and then helps her to her feet. He slides her pants back up and clasps them for her, his fingers lingering inside her waistband just a moment longer than necessary.

Once he's sure she's not going to fall over sideways, he gets her a water from the small fridge and removes the top, handing her the open bottle.

"Thank you," she whispers, chugging the water down.

Sherlock unrolls his sleeves and tries to re-button the cuffs, but his hands seem to be trembling too much for him to accomplish the task.

"Let me."

Noticing his plight, Molly reaches out to help, her beautiful hands working nimbly to button him back up.

"Thank you."

"Thank you," she counters, switching to his other wrist.

"Perhaps this has taught you the importance of being on time," he says conversationally.

"Perhaps," Molly shrugs, "but sometimes I can be quite a slow learner."

Bidding her farewell, Sherlock takes his leave, and spends the entire trip home wondering if she noticed his arousal.

Molly spends the rest of the day at work walking on air. Nothing can bring down her mood. Not the lecture she gets from her boss about requesting body parts from other hospitals, not the vending machine eating her money, and not even the three new bodies they bring in for her to autopsy.

She always feels energized and upbeat for hours after an orgasm, _and dear lord was that an orgasm._ Molly is amazed Sherlock didn't realize she wasn't crying out in pain, but in pleasure.

Then again he was probably preoccupied.

Aside from the general buzz of sexual gratification, Molly has another, stronger high coursing through her.

She _definitely_ noticed.

Molly Hooper gave Sherlock Holmes an erection.

All she wants to do is scream and dance around the room.

It's not as if she hasn't elicited that response in other men. It's just not so _hard_ with other men (no pun intended).

_This is Sherlock Bloody Holmes… Ice King… Master of Emotions._

She knows she has to do it again.

When Molly climbs into bed that night, before pulling her vibrator from the bedside drawer and reliving her _punishment_ , she sets her alarm for work…

Twenty minutes late.


	3. Chapter Three

The next morning, after cheerfully walking into work almost thirty minutes late, Molly texts Sherlock to let him know about her infraction.

_It appears as if the lesson didn't stick. I was late again this morning :(_

It takes him almost ten minutes to reply, by which time she wonders if she should have just called.

_On a case. Indisposed. Be at your flat at 8. –SH_

Molly can't believe her luck.

Sherlock Holmes, in her flat… to spank her. Eight o'clock can't come fast enough for her.

It's almost a relief when she's brought a body to autopsy. It gives her something to focus on other than Sherlock; until he walks into the morgue, John following close behind.

"Sh—Sherlock," she stutters, flustered. "What are you doing here?"

"That's my body," he says, pointing to the old woman Molly has splayed out on the slab. "For my case."

"Oh. Yes, of course."

John walks over to stand beside Molly and look over the body.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm well. You?"

"Good, good."

"And Mary? How are things coming?" Molly questions politely.

"She's healthy, though quite done being pregnant. Mary swears she's going to do jumping jacks until the baby falls out."

Molly chuckles.

She didn't notice Sherlock cross the room to stand directly behind her and John.

"Yes, yes," he breathes over her shoulder, sending a lovely shiver down her spine. "Enough pleasantries. What about my body?"

"There's not much to tell, yet. I've only just started my preliminary," Molly insists.

"Have you seen any puncture wounds? Needle marks? Scratches or defensive wounds?"

"No, nothing yet."

Sherlock leans in closer to see the corpse, his body pressing against Molly's as he does so. She bites her lip, hoping neither John or Sherlock can sense the war raging within her, demanding she give up control, turn around and snog the tall handsome bastard.

"Right," he says stepping back, leaving a feeling of loss in his stead. "I'll need a full autopsy report by one o'clock."

"I'll keep working then," Molly tells him.

"Try not to be late," Sherlock adds, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You do know she doesn't _actually_ work for you?" John asks, and then adds a farewell wave to Molly before leaving with Sherlock.

Always the diligent worker, Molly finishes her report by 12:46 pm, having found the needle mark Sherlock was looking for.

She sighs happily and goes to the canteen to buy herself a cup of tea.

Molly sends Sherlock the report at 1:01 pm.

_Tsk tsk, Miss Hooper. –SH_ is all the response she gets.

Briefly, she wonders if he is truly chastising her, or if Sherlock is playing the same game of cat and mouse as she.

Recalling the smirk he gave her this morning she concludes that truly _the game is on_.

Unfortunately today is her short day at work, and Molly gets done before five, leaving her more than three hours until Sherlock said he'd be at her flat.

She tries to distract herself from the excited fluttering in her belly.

First she takes the long way home, deciding to swing by her favorite florist and pick up some fresh flowers for the vase in her living room. Then she goes to the deli to grab herself a light supper, before finally heading home.

Already a meticulous person by nature, her flat is clean, but Molly takes to it with renewed vigor, dusting, sweeping, vacuuming… and a little furniture rearranging.

Using her own powers of deductions, Molly picks out the blue accent chair in her living room as the chair Sherlock will choose to punish her on, and then she moves the large mirror sitting in the corner and positions it so she will be able to watch as he spanks her.

By the time she finishes all of that she still has an hour and a half before Sherlock is supposed to be over.

Molly decides to take a quick, hot shower, wanting to wash away the smell of formaldehyde.

_Not the most seductive scent,_ she thinks. _Then again, this is Sherlock._

When She climbs out of the shower, skin scrubbed pink and smelling softly of honeyed almonds, Molly towel dries her hair and slips into her favorite silk dressing gown.

Checking the time, she estimates she still has anywhere between thirty to forty-five minutes until Sherlock shows up, which should give her plenty of time to decide which undergarments to wear.

As she's rifling through her lingerie drawer, Molly hears muffled footsteps coming from her living room.

Instantly her mind switches to panic mode, the memory of Moriarty's face splashed across every television in London causing her heart to pound in her chest.

She tiptoes across the bedroom to pick up a poker from beside her fireplace, then quietly opens the door to the hall.

The sun has gone down since she was last in the living room, and there are no lights on so she can't see the intruder.

Molly hopes whoever it is isn't facing the hallway, that way she has a chance at surprising them.

Her wish comes true.

She certainly does surprise her intruder.

Sherlock arrived at Molly's flat just as she was getting into the shower. When she didn't answer he let himself in with the key he'd made to her place ages ago.

He could hear the running water, and wasn't sure how long she'd been in there. The last thing he wanted to do was to shout and surprise her.

_Over 200,000 people injure themselves falling in the bathroom every year,_ he recites to himself. _I don't want her slipping in the tub._

So, instead he decides to make himself at home. He settles in on her couch and pulls out his phone, flipping through emails, trying to decide which case to bestow his attention on next.

Sherlock doesn't notice how dark the living room grows, and he doesn't think of how much it might scare Molly to discover a shadowy figure in her living room, at least not until he hears the water of the shower turn off.

He tries to remember where her light switch is, and begins fumbling around the living room looking for it.

Sherlock has just found it, and flicked the switch to on, when he hears someone charging him from behind.

Relying on instinct, Sherlock twists to face his attacker; just registering it is tiny Molly Hooper coming at him with a fire poker, before reacting.

The poker arcs through the air, but Sherlock grabs the wrist of the arm wielding it, twisting, causing the poker to drop, and Molly to spin into his arms, her back pressed to his chest.

Molly must not have registered whom it was she was attacking, because she doesn't give up, even as the arm not holding her wrist comes down to pin her form still against him.

"Molly! It's me!"

Recognition finally hits her and she sags in his arms, leaning back against him… for about two seconds.

Molly pulls away from him and spins around, her wet hair flying wildly.

"Sherlock!" she cries. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"Sorry," he apologizes sheepishly. "In my defense, I was pointedly trying to _avoid_ scaring you."

"Well bravo on that."

Molly's hand is clutching her chest, and she still has that gleam of fight-or-flight adrenaline in her eye.

She's also, Sherlock notices, only wearing a grey silk dressing gown. It hangs to mid thigh, and must have been put on promptly after she got out of the shower, because it is clinging closely to her still damp form.

He's never noticed before that beneath her frumpy cardigans, and too large button-down shirts that Molly Hooper has a body to rival that of the Woman.

Sherlock can't help but notice now, sweeping his gaze over her from head to toe.

_Long lean legs, the perfect swell of hips angling into her petite waist, the soft outline of her breasts, and the long graceful line of her neck._

He realizes that Molly notices his noticing her, and he clears his throat uncomfortably, still not quit able to look away from her.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" Molly asks. "You're here sooner than I expected."

He straightens his back and looks down his nose at her, trying to put on a mask of mock severity.

"I wished to provide you with an example that there is an alternative to being late. Being early."

"Aren't we being smart tonight?"

He swallows back his smirk and slips out of his coat.

"Well then, um, would like a cup of tea?" Molly asks, wrapping her arms protectively around herself.

_Let's have dinner._

"No, thank you."

"Right to business then," she breathes, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Just give me a moment to put something on."

She's about to retreat to her bedroom when Sherlock stops her, reaching for her wrist and holding her in place.

"Don't," he breaths, voice growing stronger as he speaks. "Don't. I mean, clearly the lessons haven't been sinking in. Perhaps you've still been protected under too many layers."

He can feel her pulse quicken and wonders if it's from fear, excitement, or both.

"Unless of course you'd rather I not see… you," he says, realizing that modesty is one of those things some people have strong feelings about.

"I have nothing to hide from you Sherlock, and nothing I'd wish to."

Molly can see Sherlock's emotional detachment crumbling before her eyes and wonders if he realizes it. She doesn't wish to scare him away, or force him into admitting anything he's not ready for.

_Besides, lust is an emotion. In all likelihood there is nothing more going on. Just Sherlock realizing a primal part of himself he can no longer lock away._

_And I am more than happy to help him open that cage._

She follows Sherlock as he removes his suit jacket once more and rolls his shirtsleeves. Just as she predicted he chooses the armless, blue accent chair to sit in.

Taking a shaky breath, her arousal already threatening to betray her as her nipples harden to attention beneath her thin gown, Molly kneels beside Sherlock.

"Miss Hooper," Sherlock booms formally, "do you know why we are here?"

He looks down at her kneeling form, authority radiating from him in way that has her instantly wet.

"Yes. Because I was late for work again, sir."

Sherlock's eyes darken dramatically when she calls him "sir", and he swallows audibly.

"And how late were you?" he asks.

"Almost thirty minutes."

"I see. Do you also recall me asking you to have your report to me today by one?"

"Yes, sir," Molly responds demurely.

"And did you?"

"No, sir."

"Forty," is all Sherlock says.

"Beg pardon?"

"That is your punishment. Forty."

Molly's chocolate eyes widen, and her skin tingles with goose bumps.

"Yes, sir," she whispers, barely audible.

Molly grabs hold of Sherlock's thigh with both hands and _slowly_ pulls herself across his lap into position.

She can feel his hands at the hem of her dressing gown, and he slides the material up, bunching it at her waist exposing her backside to him completely.

In the mirror she can see the way his lips part as he looks down, and she has to bite back the moan already threatening to overtake her.

Sherlock rests his hand on her bare ass.

"Are you ready, Miss Hooper?" he asks.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes, _sir._ "

Molly sees his mischievous smirk as he prepares the first smack and then,

"One," he counts. "Two."

Despite the flimsy lace she wore last time he punished her, there is something so much more intense about being practically naked on Sherlock's lap.

It's not that it hurts more, but she _feels_ more.

Molly can feel the way his fingers linger as he pulls away for the next strike. She can feel callouses on his fingertips from playing the violin. She can feel the pattern his thumb traces between each hit.

_It's too much_.

There is no barrier, nothing to stop him from slipping one of those long, elegant fingers inside of her. He'd meet no resistance. Her body is begging him. She half expects he'll find a wet spot on the leg of his trousers when he gets up.

"Nine," he continues, voice strained.

In the mirror she can see him wearing an expression of such concentration and awe, that she can't stop from grinding her hips against his leg.

Her body has a mind of it's own.

Nothing else matters but the slap of his hand, the feel of his skin, the expression on his face, and the feel of him beneath her.

Nothing else matters but Sherlock.

She presses forward on the twentieth spank, and when his hand comes down on twenty-one he hits lower, his finger grazing her slit.

"Oh, god," she pants, pressing harder against him, and she feels his erection pressing back.

Sherlock stops counting out loud somewhere around "twenty-five", but Molly can still see him mouthing the numbers in the mirror.

Every smack draws a gasp from her, each hit bringing her closer to completion.

Molly isn't sure if she finishes with Sherlock, or if she is too distracted by euphoria to notice any more blows.

She cries out loudly when the orgasm washes over, not really caring if Sherlock realizes what is happening; if he knows it's pleasure and not pain he's bringing her.

Molly is still panting when she comes down from her high.

As with the other times, Sherlock is rubbing her arse in small, soothing circles.

When she looks up at the mirror and sees the tenderness on his face, she can't quite breathe.

_He's so beautiful._

She doesn't realize she's crying until she feels the tears drip onto her hand.

_What am I doing?_ She wonders, suddenly realizing how much torture she's putting herself through.

Not the pain of the punishments, which is more enjoyable than painful, but the pain of being here with Sherlock. Being _this_ close. Having him with her, but not truly _having_ him.

_You're an experiment,_ she tries to reaffirm to herself. _And yet…_

And yet the look of adoration on Sherlock's face says otherwise.

_Playing with fire,_ a quiet voice whispers, _and the flames are licking your heels._

Very carefully Molly slides back across Sherlock's lap until she is back to her original kneeling position, face downcast and unable to meet his gaze.

Her body is still trembling with reverberating pleasure, and a shiver scorches through her as she feels Sherlock's fingers on her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

His brows scrunch as he notices her tears, but he doesn't say anything. He just brushes them away with his thumb, and pulls her to her feet.

Molly is wobbly, even standing in place, her dressing gown half untied revealing quite a bit more of herself to Sherlock.

In one fluid movement, Sherlock stands up and scoops her into his arms, causing Molly to squeak in surprise.

He carries her down the dark hallway towards her bedroom, and Molly strains to keep her imagination in check.

Gently, Sherlock places Molly on her bed, instructing her to lie on her stomach.

Hearing his footsteps retreating Molly wonders if he's leaving her now, and her eyes start to water again.

_Why are you such a blubbering fool right now?_

Listening intently, Molly can just make out the sounds of Sherlock moving about her kitchen; cupboards opening and closing, dishes clanking, and the sound of running water.

After about ten minutes, he returns to her side carrying a steaming mug of peppermint tea, her favorite.

"Take a drink," he instructs, setting the cup on her bedside and disappearing once more.

This time she can hear him in her bathroom.

Carefully, trying not to spill any on her comforter, Molly hoists herself up onto her elbows and sips at her tea.

When Sherlock comes back she is again laying face down on her bed, wondering what else he was doing.

She jumps a little when she feels his fingers graze her thigh and begin to pull her dressing gown up again.

"Shh," he coos, calming her.

The air eases the sting of her backside, but it's the cool cream Sherlock begins spreading on her rump that draws the contented sigh from her lips.

His ministrations are slow and circular, leaving no welt or red spot unattended.

Molly isn't sure when she falls asleep, and she isn't sure if she dreams the kiss on her forehead, but she _is_ positive about one thing…

She's falling even deeper in love with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
